


stir the blood, round & round

by fivewhatfive



Category: Bad Blood - Taylor Swift (Music Video)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9510056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivewhatfive/pseuds/fivewhatfive
Summary: two people who suck at letting go walk into a hotel room. you've heard this one before.





	

Red on the sheets.

And after— _despite_ everything, it gives Arsyn pause. It stills the hand that's zipping up her left boot, slows the breath in her lungs. She's cautious in reaching for the spot, fingers inching closer like they just might trip a sensor.

"It's lipstick." 

Arsyn's hand jerks away from the stain, the voice, the body on the other side of the mattress. Last time they’d crossed paths she’d stumbled, alarm and adrenaline and a readiness to jump away at any moment elbowing each other to take the lead when Catastrophe's mouth had opened against hers, the hand gripping Arsyn's chin reeking of leather and gunpowder. Last time she'd walked home with a sting in her palms from where her nails bit into the skin. She'd messed up the passcode in the elevator. She'd popped four bullets out of the clip and put them back in the box; fired the last four at the wall. She'd thought, _next time, next time, next time_. 

Catastrophe is big on crap like this—gestures, _statements_. Walking away without disrupting a single thing about Arsyn's actual operation so the specter of her could-haves would loom in her absence. 

Well, Arsyn is big on pushing back. 

She's the one who sends the message, making bets with herself on how long it'll take Catastrophe to scope out the hotel and decide it's the kind of place who'll get the feds on the line over a misplaced cigarette butt. They have a bar overlooking the city and there Arsyn had waited, the chatter of hotel security in her ears and a bright orange cocktail in her hand. She'd even suffered Catastrophe's little side-eyed look after being offered—and declining—a table with a view. Right by the edge. 

And then Arsyn had taken Catastrophe to bed, let Catastrophe taste that horrid cocktail on her tongue and yank zipper and hairs alike while taking off Arsyn's dress. She'd wanted Catastrophe to feel in control, wanted her to feel it taken away when Arsyn pulled her hips back until her palms slapped the mattress. 

Most of all, she'd wanted to teach Catastrophe she could arm herself with psychological bullshit, too; beat her in any battlefield.

Arsyn had nudged Catastrophe's knees apart and splayed out the fingers of her left hand over Catastrophe's back. "It didn't scar," she'd said, malicious in her nonchalance. Catastrophe sucked in a breath—anger, hopefully; shock would just be insulting—so Arsyn slid two fingers inside her and made her breathe it out. _I'm better_ , Arsyn had thought, hissing as Catastrophe's teeth retaliated on her nipple, surging to meet Catastrophe's mouth as much as she'd wanted to get away. She'd thought she'd make Catastrophe admit that too, one day. Soon. (Next time, _next time_ —) 

Catastrophe is resting on her stomach now, her back fully exposed, and it's weirdly grating. Not the dare itself, that go-ahead-try-again, but the fact Catastrophe was _still_ doing this, leaving herself open; still thought the bite was worth the lesson. 

Arsyn tugs the zipper on her boot the rest of the way up and rises. She looks for her jacket, but her eyes get stuck on the way Catastrophe’s rolled onto her side and started stroking the lipstick stain, tit for tat in nonchalance. She shouldn't say anything. She _shouldn't_ — 

"You literally didn't change." 

Catastrophe smiles, but it's private, inward. "Of course not," she says, easily, and looks up. "Then there would be a point to it, right? Then it would've made sense down the line.” Her finger absently taps red. “Then you could tell people 'Hey, see that girl? She used to trust people, but then I warned her and now she's better.' ” 

Arsyn shrugs on her jacket, pulls her hair over one shoulder and counts every pass of her fingers through it, combing tangles that aren't really there. ( _One_ ) Tonight is already hers. ( _Two_ ) This is just Catastrophe needing to have the last word. 

( _Three_ ) "Did you work on that speech before or after you shot a stranger for money?" 

The mattress groans and Arsyn turns back around. Catastrophe has only sat up on her knees, but still. Hair mussed and lips bare, all skin and no weapons, Catastrophe is the opposite of harmless.

"At least it was a stranger," she says. "At least it wasn't someone I trusted."

“Doesn’t make it better.”

Catastrophe stares. “Are you seriously—”

“Oh my god.”

“—claiming some _moral_ —”

“You do it all the time!” She doesn’t mean to yell. It’s not even—it doesn’t matter, it’s not why she came here.

Catastrophe's chest rises and falls. She's slightly noisy on the exhale, her next breath just a tad shorter than the last, and when she narrows her eyes and opens her mouth, Arsyn takes one large step and just— shuts her up. Sucks on Catastrophe's bottom lip, presses against her and then forces their mouths apart. Kills it before it's out there, what other wounded bullshit Catastrophe's tried on in front of a mirror enough times to sharpen it just so. 

God, she should've gotten that jaw wired shut. 

(Next time, maybe.)


End file.
